


La Petite Mort

by orphan_account



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Angst, Barricade Day, Choking, M/M, Minor Character Death, Oral Sex, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Revolution, Trans Character, Trans Male Character, Trans Montparnasse, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-25
Updated: 2019-09-25
Packaged: 2020-10-28 08:37:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,003
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20775674
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: “What exactly is it,” asked Grantaire with forced calm, “that you are suggesting to me?”“I am suggesting that you calm your fury unless you plan to speak to him the same way. After all, Grantaire, we look just the same in the dark.”He did not wait for another word. Walking into the darkened, empty upstairs room of the bistro, it was never anything less than a certainty to Montparnasse that Grantaire would follow, and follow he did; a little stumbling, a little uneven, not infrequently speckled with curses, but he followed.





	La Petite Mort

"Am I under arrest, or not?"

Montparnasse looked up with a petulant eye, quite unbecoming on the face of one so accustomed to knowing exactly what he is owed. As Enjolras met that gaze with his own barely restrained fury, it might strike the casual observer that there was something more here than two men fighting. One cold, icy to the point of monochromatic, a charcoal caricature of the crime so thoroughly infesting the foundations of Paris that it had practically replaced them; the other blazing fierce as the sun, golden halo whipping violently around his head, alight and animated enough to burn the whole city down just for the pleasure of building it again. They were polar opposites, and identical. These boys with the faces of women and the hearts of steel could no more exist without each other than they could without Paris. And yet on occasion they were compelled to stand side by side, and the resultant volatile compound would be enough to ravage nations, should they choose to let it.

This was one such occasion, and they both knew it.

"Well? It's your people's court, after all. Judge, jury, executioner. I saw what you did to Claquesous in the name of justice, without even a trial. Should you see fit for me to endure the same fate, I would be neither surprised nor disappointed. Although I must say, it would be a crying waste. After all, you haven't even seen what I brought for you yet."

He grinned.

"Besides, I would rather like to be there when you get what's coming to you."

"I will take whatever justice sees fit to give me," replied Enjolras, "Just as long as it is truly justice." A pause. "Get up. Make yourself useful. Don't make me regret keeping a common criminal- a murderer- by my side. I may be a brother to all but that does not mean I love you."

"Of course," replied the dandy, rubbing his newly-untied wrists as he rose to his feet. "For they have made insurrections legal now, and encourage public vandalism and disturbance of the peace as signs of good citizenship. All the guns you hold are incapable of inflicting wounds, that flag you fly is red with passion but never with blood, you did not touch my friend, you did not put your pistol to his chin, you did not pull the trigger, and, when you had finished removing his brains, you did not reclaim your spent bullet and wash the last of his thoughts from it so you could use it again, you did not waste a life but retain the shot to _economize on powder._"

His voice rose in pitch and fury with every word, and he strode forward, ending chest to heaving chest with his counterpart. With spittle dotting his perfectly rouged lips, he reached out and smoothed aside a strand of Enjolras's flyaway hair.

"No, brother," Montparnasse continued in a low murmur. "Because here is no place for murderers and common criminals. For you, I have this."

And in one smooth strike he pressed a delicate, lingering kiss to Enjolras's lips and a folded piece of paper to his hand.

"Perhaps you'll take me out too one day - or do I have to make an appointment?" he added with a smirk, pulling back to just a breath away.

"Whatever information you have for us will be judged on its merits, and will do nothing to convince me of yours," returned Enjolras coolly, and turned on his heel, stepping away from Montparnasse and back into the centre of the ragged circle which always seemed to form around him. He sat on the table and began to examine the note carefully, calling over Combeferre and Courfeyrac for their opinions. Montparnasse chose to step the opposite way, slinking back into the shadows and observing the milling crowd until he found what he was looking for.

With light tread and fluid movement he crept, behind furniture and over ruined pavement, to the table where Grantaire had awoken a few minutes before. He had observed the whole spectacle with the drained pallor of a man condemned and was now eyeing the empty bottle of wine beside him as if he could will it to fill again. At the sound of a soft cough from behind him he jumped, and glared when he saw Montparnasse.

"I don't know where the rest of them may go, but I for one look forward to seeing you in hell, so that I may strangle you without costing the revolution a man."

"Now, there's no need for that. I brought you a present."

"What could you bring me? If it isn't absinthe, I have no time for it."

"Such a temper! And yet not entirely incorrect. If it's intoxication you're seeking, I can recommend nothing higher than your virgin statue's lips."

Colour surged back to Grantaire’s cheeks, flushing redder than the wine staining his teeth, and he leapt to his feet in fury.

“You bastard,” he snarled, “you heretic,” but all was met with a smile from the shadow of his god.

“I’d suggest you check that temper. It’s as I told you- he is truly intoxicating, and I fail to see any way what I suggest would have anything other than merit for us both. I have had a rather stressful day and would like to release some of my frustrations, and you, well, forgive my bluntness, but you are plainly sat there all but praying for him to punish you.”

“What exactly is it,” asked Grantaire with forced calm, “that you are suggesting to me?”

“I am suggesting that you calm your fury unless you plan to speak to him the same way. After all, Grantaire, we look just the same in the dark.”

He did not wait for another word. Walking into the darkened, empty upstairs room of the bistro, it was never anything less than a certainty to Montparnasse that Grantaire would follow, and follow he did; a little stumbling, a little uneven, not infrequently speckled with curses, but he followed.

The shutters in the attic room were drawn, the furniture dusty, but fortunately this was all to plan. After all, he had promised Grantaire darkness, and as for the dust, well, a little humiliation went a long way on a man desperate to beg. The door had not a moment closed behind them when he pounced on Grantaire.

In truth, Montparnasse had been expecting to be shorter than Grantaire, as was often the case when he was around men, but this was not so. His slim figure gave the illusion of additional height, as did his heeled boots, and Grantaire was short and stocky. A boxer’s build, with a craftsman’s hands. The very thought of it made Montparnasse flush in anticipation. Of course, he could get this whenever he wanted it, but it was never quite the same without the emotional connection. And hatred had never seemed more than a coin toss away from desire.

“You come here to worship every day,” he murmured, layering his voice with the passion and fury of angels. “Any yet it is only now you dare to touch. Why is that?”

“To look into the eyes of a god is to sacrifice my mortal sight. I would rather kill myself with a thousand daily wounds than end it in the blaze of heavenly fire such an act would bring upon me.”

The slurring at the edges of his speech grew less with each word, sparks flying off his tongue. Every drunkard in Paris was in his own mind an experienced orator, and no drunkard more so than Grantaire.

“So you come at night?” replied Montparnasse, tasting the fire in their mingled breaths. Pressed to the wall, Grantaire scrabbled for a handhold in the plaster simply to prevent his weak knees from failing him.

“Perhaps, but if you were truly the man you wish me to picture, you’d know exactly when I come.”

“And yet you’re scared to touch. Grantaire”- he moaned at the sound of his name, and Montparnasse repeated it like it was some rare treat melting smooth and rich on his tongue, lowering his voice to a growl- “Grantaire, you speak as though you are a penitent man. Tell me, how do you pay such penitence?”

“With worship,” came the breathy reply.

“And how do you worship?”

“On my-"

_“On your knees.”_

Their voices came as one, Grantaire’s a prayer, Montparnasse’s a command. His fingers tangled in a handful of the artist’s hair and forced him to his knees with a resounding thud. The whimper in Grantaire’s throat caused a shudder to run through Montparnasse, who bit his lip hard and stifled a sharp intake of breath as Grantaire reached out to him. With trembling, reverent fingers, he slipped undone the belt, the buttons, dipping hesitantly under the waistband a few times before he finally gave in and slid the fabric down Montparnasse’s porcelain thighs for him to step free of.

And there, for a moment, he paused.

“You really aren’t so different,” he murmured, so tantalisingly close that Montparnasse could have slapped him.

“It’s as I told you. We look just the same in the dark.”

A gentle sigh escaped Grantaire’s lips, which quickly trailed off into a whine as Montparnasse seized his hair once again.

“I can’t fathom your silence. I gave a command, did I not? Worship.”

That smart mouth, that treacherous tongue, dark curls buried in dark curls and Grantaire began to murmur once more. Montparnasse gasped loudly.

“O Lord Apollo,” he heard- no, he felt, oh gods how he felt Grantaire saying softly, “O Apollo, the liberty of Paris is and will always be a lie and yet you almost make me a believer,” and on every ‘l’ he would curl his tongue just so and Montparnasse would tremble.

“Fuck,” he breathed. Grantaire glanced upwards.

“Rather unbecoming of a holy man to curse.”

“Shut up and do that again,” was Montparnasse’s only reply.

The cynic’s quick tongue returned to its place between his thighs, and at the same time the roughened, artist’s hands began to slide just a little higher. They fell into a rhythm, Grantaire gasping for breath as Montparnasse’s hips thrust against him, knocking his head against the plaster wall at his back. And yet it didn’t satisfy. Again and again those fingers teased their way upwards and withdrew after a gentle, imperceptible nudge right where he so desperately needed them. Half mad with want, the hundredth time Grantaire pushed, circled, withdrew, Montparnasse could no longer hesitate.

His palm struck Grantaire across the side of the face, accompanied by a growl of “Would you withhold from him?” and a sharp push of his hips.

The reaction was instantaneous. Grantaire circled tightly with his tongue, drawing spirals- or perhaps that was simply Montparnasse’s head beginning to spin. Two fingers made their firm but gentle entrance and in mere moments two things became abundantly clear. The first, was that not one of the many people Grantaire had drunkenly wooed could ever have been disappointed with talent like this. The second, was that this was just teetering on the edge of not enough.

It took all of Montparnasse’s remaining wits to cease his pushing against Grantaire’s touch and stand up, stepping away from his crouching form and towards a chair. When Grantaire didn’t immediately follow, Montparnasse stepped back and grabbed him by the shirtfront, hauling him to his feet. There was saliva coating much of his face, along with certain other fluids, and he was all but trembling. Below his belt, the fabric of his trousers was straining desperately, and there was a patch the size of a centime which was noticeably darker than the rest. Montparnasse regarded it with disdain.

“Spent already?”

“No,” mumbled Grantaire, “no, I- please.”

As if any power in Paris could deter either of them now. Montparnasse was afire with the thrill of mastery as Grantaire burned with years of longing and pretence, and there was no conclusion left which made sense other than the one they both yearned for.

Never regarded as the member of Patron-Minette with the most brute strength, it might have surprised some to see the ease with which Montparnasse almost threw Grantaire into the chair. All the while he was unbuckling Grantaire’s belt and taking his erect member in hand, even as he was lowering himself down to sit in Grantaire’s lap, he was whispering golden delights into the artist’s ear. Words of comfort and praise. All lies, naturally, but within the wider lie of the night- the wider still lie of the revolution- it was truth enough.  
One hand on Grantaire’s chest and the other brushing wildly, sensually across his own body, Montparnasse began to rock his hips once more. This, this was the last pinnacle of heaven before the morning’s dawn in hell. He felt full, every sensation heightened, and took great pleasure in the way he could feel Grantaire responding to his touches in a manner which had, mere minutes before, been left to his imagination. Sprawled across the chair, completely at the mercy of the man sat atop him, Grantaire moaned and gazed longingly with closed eyes up towards Montparnasse’s face.

“And they call me overdressed,” murmured Montparnasse, deftly unbuttoning Grantaire’s shirt. The skin beneath was hairy and freckled and scarred, quite the contrast to his pale, smooth thighs just beside it, and flushed a pretty shade when he raked his fingernails across it. Grantaire arched his back and cried out.

“More.”

“More?”

“Please.”

Almost before he had finished exhaling the word, Grantaire was cut off by Montparnasse wrapping a skilled palm around his throat. One of the more interesting skills he had learned through his various ill-deeds was exactly how much pressure would incapacitate, render unconscious, or even kill a grown man. He’d also made a point to note how much was enough for certain other purposes; the kind more associated with _la petite mort_ than with a true death.

And it was like this that he stayed, drawing out the ecstasy for as long as he was able. The panting and moaning coming erratically from Grantaire’s throat mingled with the distant sound of Enjolras preaching fire and liberty to his army. Montparnasse heard it all without listening and found it made a wonderful accompaniment to all his other senses; the taste of wine and blood and cheap makeup on his lips, the cooling evening air caressing his exposed skin, the fullness and tightness in him as he ground down hard against Grantaire, closer now, closer. Grantaire, he knew, was listening. This much was obvious; when Enjolras raised his voice to underline a point, receiving a cheer in response, Grantaire shuddered as though on the verge of coming undone.

Two fingers against himself, his other hand still pressing just hard enough on Grantaire’s throat, Montparnasse felt himself tightening, chasing the release he so needed. Curses began to drip from his lips like poetry. Beneath him Grantaire was writhing almost to the point of dislodging a lesser man, but there was deceptive strength in ‘Parnasse’s dainty frame and he only clung all the tighter. With a final cry Grantaire’s whole body trembled and Montparnasse felt his release, hot and rushing and twitching within him. He wondered if Enjolras heard the cry too; wondered if perhaps he had looked up and noticed the moving shapes inside the room; recognised Grantaire’s silhouette, even, and possibly even something more, possibly even made out what was truly happening, the details lost in the darkness and distance but the suggestion enough to madden him. Perhaps he felt rage, envy, lust, Grantaire’s golden god falling to sin just like the rest of the world. Montparnasse was many things but to most, first and foremost, he was a thief. This was just one more pretty little trinket to steal.

They would never be so different as Apollo would like to pretend.

A groan slid from his mouth, a burning knot beginning to twist within him, and he followed it with all his might.

Perhaps he would meet them as they stepped outside once more, twin sunsets burning in his eyes. Perhaps the envy and the rage and the lust all at once would become Montparnasse’s for the taking just like everything else. Perhaps Montparnasse could steal him away too, and show him all the ways he’d never dared to touch himself, mirrored in memory and an eternally ending lifetime of indulgence, hear him cry out unscripted for a change somewhere only his shadow could hear. Perhaps Montparnasse could continue until he was driven half mad, forced to beg forgiveness in his newfound realisation that he should never be allowed all he wants, for there will always be men to ensure he regrets it.

With such thoughts on his mind and the frantic heat of Grantaire’s cock between his legs and his own two fingers moving tighter, tighter around and harder against and blasphemy pouring ice-hot from his lips, Montparnasse felt his own release shudder through him. His eyes flickered shut and the lipstick he wore came off against his teeth, and as he bit his lip to keep the cry inside a cheer rose from the street. The ecstasy of death flooded the square, not to mention Grantaire’s thighs. Montparnasse felt it on his skin as he stood, already stepping away from the chair and turning back towards the night.

An odd tension in the air made Montparnasse pause, glancing back to Grantaire’s slumped and twitching form. Limp as a rag doll and covered in something warm and wet and clinging. When he looked away again it was with disgust marring his perfect features.

Before him, Paris burned. Granite settled once more in Montparnasse’s stomach. Enjolras was handing guns to every able man, and Montparnasse half swore he could feel the same weight in his hand with every one.

It all looked the same, in the dark.


End file.
